


Let All Who Ask for Shelter

by MarionRav



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5206283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarionRav/pseuds/MarionRav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember that cool page of Clark Kent showing a homeless Billy Batson that he's Superman?  What if Clark decided to try to adopt him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rosencrantz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosencrantz/gifts).



  
_Unlock the door this evening_  
_And let your gate swing wide,_  
_Let all who ask for shelter_  
_Come speedily inside._  
Joyce Kilmer “Gates and Doors” 1917

Investigative reporting, in a large city like Metropolis, wasn’t a one man field. It wasn’t even a one woman field, in Lois Lane’s case. She was a star reporter for the Daily Planet before Clark Kent showed up on the scene. They kind of settled into two sides of the same coin. She ended up in heels with fat cats and fat bank accounts. Clark, meanwhile, ended up beating the streets to look at the skeletons in those same fat cats’ closets.

Today, she was talking on the phone with her mother. Her mother thought she needed to pick a safer line of work, and definitely needed a new dating pool. One that didn’t involve Clark Kent.

In the end, she was catching up with her mother while editing a thick swath of wedding reporting. It was as a favor for Betsy, who volunteered to check the exact spelling of the suspect list for a horse betting ring coming out of a laundromat. The “don’t tell mother about this” part of that story was that it totally didn’t involve a mayoral candidate (but the evidence was getting more and more concrete on that.) In the background, she could hear Betsy lamenting the fourteenth John D. on the list. Well - she was double checking if things were the trendy champagne, eggshell, or off white, so really, they both weren’t having fun.

“Dear, are you listening?” Her mother was cleaning, from the sound of things. It was probably Thanksgiving prep. Either that or she was banging tin pans for the fun of it. “Look, the ‘he’s different and people get the wrong opinion about him’ thing - that’s a red light, you know?’”

“I meant he’s different outside of work, mom,” Lois said, typing in some gushing prose about fondant on the cake, Genoese guipure lace, and the civic good works by the groom. “I know he looks,” she paused trying to struggle with honesty and truth, and then continued, “Nerdy in the photos, but he does the same work I do. Think of it like camouflage.”

“I saw that suit!” her mother replied, “That plaid would kill a used car salesman at ten paces, if the age of the car didn’t get him first.”

The car was a broad boxy thing, with a 1970’s sort of green that made her think of an old kitchen appliance. On the other hand, it survived someone trying to run them off the road, and there was plenty of room for three camera bags and someone to run the equipment in the back. “But looks aren’t everything. Outside of work, trust me, he can clean up quite nicely.”

Admittedly, she hadn’t really wanted her mom updating online the entire bridge group and the family quite that much when Lois managed to get a photo of Clark in a tuxedo and her all in formal wear. Clark had looked amazing, and it was one of the best work plus date things they’d done. They ended that evening on a roof, with mugs of soup, while the fire trucks dealt with a fire, but Clark had actually wore the glasses she thought were merely dorky versus the ones that made her wonder if he deliberately asked for poindexter jokes.

Really, the camouflage thing wasn’t just calming her mom down. Clark gained some height when he didn’t hunch his shoulders and definitely had a hard chiseled charm when he bothered to wear something that wasn’t tweedy, plaid, or plain bad fitting. The glasses were just icing on the cake.

Last time she mentioned the poindexter thing to Clark, he made Ms. Felix jokes at her. She didn’t know how he knew Felix the Cat. Did they even run that in papers out in the middle of nowhere? Back issues in the library?

Her e-mail dinged, interrupting her mother’s good natured worrying. Clark was inviting her to lunch to meet someone. “I’ve got to get going, mom,” she says. “Lunch plans, and I need to finish what I’m working on.”

“Just be careful with the politics, dear. Or warn me before you’re on national TV,” her mom said, and hung up after the usual farewells.

Betsy leaned over the side of her cubicle. “Lunch plans?” She had a smudge of purple on her nose from the mimeograph machine.

“Clark,” Lois said. She leaned back in her chair to grab her coat off the corner of the cubicle. “I’m almost done with your stack. How about you?”

“John D. number sixteen,” Betsy said and offered a cup of coffee. “Is this on the company dollar? Or can you two take a third? The mayoral junk’s going to be amazing if we can prove it, but I swear the Doe family and the Deveux family deliberately scrambled all the ownership paperwork.”

“He’s asking me to meet a kid, from the sound of things. At his place, so not likely.” Lois scrolled through the message. Clark wanted to adopt? “I’ll pick up something for the break room. I did warn you the names were bad.”

“Never will I lament pink and corset backs again,” Betsy said. “Go get those exclusives?”

“Let me get through this sea of lace, and I’ll let you know if anything amazing happens. I think it’s non-work related.” Lois typed a reply back, along with a couple of the more interesting charitable couples. Clark enjoyed people interested in reforming the city. Country. World.

And really, even if he looked unrepentantly dorky, that was sexy as all get out.


	2. Chapter 2

  
_What if your yard be narrow?_  
_What if your house be small?_  
_There is a Guest is coming_  
_Will glorify it all._  
Joyce Kilmer “Gates and Doors” 1917

“So how’d you find that apartment?” Billy asked. He poked Clark in the back to get him to stop hunching his shoulders, and gained a sheepish grin. Clark had made the mistake of pointing out he was slouching and he was going to take advantage of the habit on Clark’s side as much as possible.

They’d talked with a social worker. Clark claimed he met Billy while doing some reporting, and he agreed to send in tax forms, income paperwork, criminal record information, and have a visit to his apartment. Then he offered to take Billy over to see it and have lunch. Compared to TV or the books in school, the place looked - well - it had two bedrooms, a bathroom done in Art Deco pink tile, exactly two pictures on the wall per room, and a desk covered in work from the paper. Really, the 30’s era trimmings and the occasional ding and dent from age was the main thing that kept him from feeling like Clark could shake out a perfectly multicultural batch of friends all with trustworthy jobs or a secret criminal organization hidden in the basement.

“Looked up Will and William Batson and then talked to the Children’s Bureau which pointed me to some tax records.” Clark was cooking noodles. He promised a good sauce and not excessive spinach. Frankly, everything green that Clark had fed him had actually been tolerable, compared to the hospital cafeteria that the psychiatrist hauled him into occasionally. Then again, ketchup counted as a vegetable serving. “That got the apartment building. There was three room numbers, so I checked with the office and then the janitor. Which sounds pretty bad, but I thought lunch would make up for it.”

Frankly, as soon as Billy knew who it was, he didn’t care. Superman infamously refused to reveal anything about his private life. Considering how powerful he was, and the entire “not human” thing, people understood. So having Superman show up and say that he was Clark Kent? The “how he knew where to find you” didn’t really have a creepy vibe.

Billy leaned on the counter. “I’m amazed the social workers didn’t try to shove me off on you from the get go. My records are kind of . . . well, they say I’ve got ‘disciplinary issues’.” That got a face, and air quotes. Really, a lot of it was that he hated the loss of independence. The tenements weren’t safe, stifling in the summer, freezing in the winter, and terrible for trying to do anything but get out, but he didn’t get curfews, therapists that agreed with the foster parents cutting the checks, and orders to pretend to be normal. Living in abandoned houses wasn’t safe either, but it cut down on visitors.

“Well, the adoption offer’s open. I wanted you to meet Lois, so you could see if you like her. We’re . . . I’m not sure what the proper term for it is.” Clark had already used serious girlfriend, and he showed Billy the e-mail she wrote back to him. She sounded pleasant if you ignored the mention of the horse betting ring she was researching wedged in between some charitable couples and wedding junk.

“Girlfriend isn’t going to break my brain. She knows who you are? Who you _are_?” Billy pushed himself to his feet to find plates. He tried to not wince at the noise they made scraping together while he was trying to reach them. It wasn’t like they were fine china or anything, but he didn’t want to drop anything like an idiot. The entire apartment wasn’t super ritzy. The bathroom had some country photo junk that was probably middle America farmland. The desk pictures had a group of people with the Daily Planet logo, and an older couple who looked like they should come with Norman Rockwell certificates of authenticity.

“Yes, but not who you are. To her, you’re a kid I want to adopt. Nothing more, nothing less. If you want her to know more, that’s your choice.” Clark looked over as a glass rattled and leaned to help bring the one he couldn’t reach down. “Thanks for that. There’s juice or milk.”

“I’m drinking, you know. Sometimes.” Billy tried that little messy secret, to see if he got a face from Clark. Not a ton of drinking, but he had the occasional beer. He avoided drugs, since he’d seen the other end of getting into that too much while wearing the Captain Marvel face.

“Not at lunch, and not for quite a few more years, legally speaking,” Clark said.

“So if you -” Billy’s voice cracked to his embarrassment mid-sentence. Great. “If you adopted me. Would you tell her?” Tell this girlfriend that he was Captain Marvel. Or anything else about him. Say that a friend died because he wasn’t fast enough.

“Probably not. Unless you wanted to. I trust her, but that doesn’t mean you need to.” Clark pointed at one of the drawers. “Silverware, if you would? Or do you want to see how to make a malfada sauce?”

“Mal -” Billy’s pretty sure that didn’t come in a the generic noodle and sauce packets. “Isn’t that something like badly made?” Why was he trying to show off?

“It is. Tomatoes, and cream, sometimes some butter. Usually cheese on top. It was invented as a quick rich tasting sauce by Italian immigrants. And a bit of spinach is nice in there.” Clark mostly didn’t use his powers when he was cooking. So this was - almost domestic in an ordinary way, versus a pack of hungry superheroes scrambling something together in a kitchen while carefully not talking too much about injuries or too much about secrets.

Though - maybe this was ordinary too. Two superheroes making lunch for the older guy’s girlfriend. He’d heard kind of casual talk about post mission stress relief. Or in some groups, post mission stress relief in the form of screaming at each other until the pizza and beer numbed some of the anger. Considering the - the _whatever_ that was Batman and everyone from Gotham, he’d pictured the lot of them sitting on the edge of the counter and silently scowling at tv dinners in the oven.

He mentioned that once, to someone. They laughed and said something about morphine. Then they looked off toward the city, scrubbed down their face like it’d make things a bit less worn and tired, and mumbled Albert or Alfred would’ve been doing the cooking and - well - they didn’t finish whatever else. Just looked somber, and they took him down for sandwiches after they got off the roof. Insisted on paying, when he apologized for not having a wallet on him. He got jokes about having a wooden leg for how hungry he was, and it was . . . not a regular thing, but it was an occasional thing. If the mission wasn’t too bad. He tried to chip in for the cost. Green Arrow nearly made comments about how wrinkled the bills were, which just got complaints about how not everyone had convenient wallet holding belts.

The bills were wrinkled because he’d walked dogs for a month and took some piles of loose change in from sweeping up the laundromat. He had a ten. He owed twenty, if he was keeping track. He paid the rest back once the psychiatrist suggested allowances should be for all the kids in the house. Got him in trouble, but he was doing housework for more hours than sweeping and walking the dogs. Ended up getting sent back for disciplinary issues. The psychiatrist asked him if he was sad. When he said he was angry, he got some group therapy things about anger management. The self defense part of the course was good.

The psychiatrist thing was charity, which he didn’t take. Social worker more or less said he’d take something, or he was getting in more trouble for the truancy. He didn’t know the specifics, save that the money wasn’t coming from any obviously evil group, and it just meant that homeless people got therapy. Harmless, right? Not that he was entirely homeless. Just didn’t have a home he wanted to walk into. Best he could tell, the money may’ve been coming from some mega corporation down in Gotham. Some drunken rich man who decided that you’d get off the streets with regular meds.

Batman had some big thing about revealing identities about the “buy something from the food carts after a mission.” It was a strict takeout or eat outside thing since well - cameras, weird powers causing issues with going inside, etc. So he watched Batman talk to his junior partner while Captain Marvel (totally not a younger kid than that teen) was awkwardly perched on the world’s tiniest chair in a park with a crepe from a food truck. He had no clue how an adult should handle an authority figure chewing someone out.

Afterwards it was kind of - he got some kind of rueful, “He’s a worrywort. You know how people who think - who think stuff are like.” So he got to listen to people complaining about overly smothering totally not parental figures.

“Ixnay on the civilian identity talk,” someone pointed out, and gestured at him. “Shazam over there’s more secretive about it than all of us. Bats thinks we’ll drop too much, and I don’t think he even knows where Shazam sleeps.”

“It’s . . . I don’t think anyone knows where I am right now,” he offered at the time. “I don’t think I’d want Batman on my windowsill critiquing my performance, but - I haven’t had my landlady doing it either. When the heat died, I kind of wish she had.”

That got someone laughing a little too hard, and clapping him on the back. “Yeah yeah. But teenagers, right? Whining about the adults is what we all do.”

“And then we’re happy to have them for the washing machine,” someone else said, perching up in a tree. It was weird, later, that someone offered him some pamphlets on renter’s rights in Metropolis.

And then - and then he saw a kid die. Someone he knew. Just shattered him. Superman was there, and he explained how maybe - maybe just maybe _he_ needed to vanish. The “civilian identity” half of him. And showed him what Billy Batson was. Just some scrawny ass kid, wearing clothes just worn enough to get you followed for shoplifting.

He thought it’d mean Superman would treat him like an idiot, but maybe shield him a bit from the - from the “people you know brutally dying in front of you” thing. Instead, he had some suit show up at the tenement. He swore he wasn’t a social worker and he opened up his shirt to show the logo. The S. “Sometimes, I’m Clark Kent,” Superman told him.

Superman yelled at the wizard about it too. The wizard didn’t tell him directly, but it was more of a - he got enough clues to know. Yelled at the wizard for endangering him. Yelled at him for picking Billy Batson as not a good enough kid, but the only kid who was the least broken. He was rising above his failings, the wizard told him. He needed to gain wisdom. He needed to not be angry.

He should stop brooding. Disciplinary issues. “Since you’re trying to get me to shoot up in height by tossing vitamins at me,” Billy said. It’d be a mineral though, right? The iron? Already sound like an idiot, Billy, no point in correcting yourself. “That and calcium, I guess.”

“Also, Lois likes it.” Clark moved over a little, since Billy had moved closer to watch. “But it can’t hurt, right?”

Billy watched the butter melt in the pan (real butter - not one of those "knead the yellow dye into the margarine" ones, or the cheap stuff that weeped water if you looked at it funny.) Then he reached up to poke Clark’s shoulder blade to make him stand up straight. “Can’t hurt.”


	3. Chapter 3

  
_Unbar your heart this evening_  
_And keep no stranger out,_  
_Take from your soul's great portal_  
_The barrier of doubt._  
Joyce Kilmer “Gates and Doors” 1917

Clark didn’t ask why he was using this abandoned house, but one of the other kids was asking why Billy was spending all this time talking with a vacuum salesman. It wasn’t like encyclopedia door to door guys or something like that were necessarily terrible (even when wearing horrible plaids,) as much as people trying to look out for him. Still, he showed up with breakfast and Billy dropped one of the sandwiches off with someone he wasn’t presently arguing with. “I thought you had work.”

“Not today. There’s an evening function but I’ll be fine for that,” Clark smiled at him. “I wondered if you wanted to help out.”

“Help out?” Billy looked out the window, but - well - the sky was just dotted with clouds, versus aliens, ominous shades of green, or anything obviously started by forces villainous.

“Farmer’s market. Superman offered to show up to help with the tables, and I said I could see if there’d be anyone else free. Are you?” Clark looked at him over his glasses (dorky) and didn’t seem to mind that he was sitting on a milk crate with a suit (tweedy.)

Billy frowned. “Just tables?”

“Might be some awnings. With the breeze, that should be interesting,” Clark sounded like that’d actually be a problem versus the least of their worries. “From what I’ve seen, there’s nothing to worry about there.”

Billy touched his bag of books. He was working through some SAT prep stuff. Trying to see what grade he’d get placed in. The psychiatrist suggested they run him through some home schooling books to see how much he remembered. “Do you . . . .” The idea of spending a weekend willingly doing schoolwork after putting up tables for a pack of weird hippies sounded surreal enough that his voice cracked.

Clark didn’t laugh. The man could probably see pratfalls and not snort with laughter. “How’s the books going? We could attack them, but I think that sounds like a post lunch thing. Perhaps with ice cream?”

“Crepe stand,” Billy said promptly, without thinking. “It’s open today.”

Instead of getting mad, Clark grinned. “Crepe stand. You’ll have to show me which one. I know there’s one near the Daily Planet. Apparently the French on the menu is interesting.”

So they ended up outside a Unitarian church, faced with a pile of civilians and a tent that was trying to flap down the soccer field like a canvas inchworm.

Captain Marvel got a kiss from some grandmother offering handmade judo uniforms once they got the tents under control.

It took maybe an hour to get the tables set up. It was his idea to help with the setup, since there was a lady with a broken arm and a couple of friends trying to work with bushels of hail damaged apples. The hail was probably from that weather control machine they took out a few days ago. That was a mess. There was maybe seven of them and they ended up working on the second story of a barn with all the wood either smoldering or coated in ice. It wasn’t a bad mission, when it came to people dying, but everything was a treacherous mess of black ice and drifts of hail. At least his skills with lightning were useful.

And then they headed back to Clark’s apartment with apples, some fresh corn, and four paper boats of zucchini fries from the Dreaded Zucchini food stall. The owner said the name came from having a bit of an excess.

“I think I like the spicy ones better,” Billy said, once Clark found and used a restroom to get his suit on again.

Clark tried one. “Sorry that took a while.” He settled his glasses back on his nose and made a noise when Billy nudged his shoulder blade. “I think they have more salt as well. We could probably make this.”

“Probably wouldn’t taste as good if we didn’t spend half the morning wrestling tents.” Billy frowned. “Those glasses don’t really do anything, do they?”

“Nope.” Clark didn’t seem to mind talking about this kind of thing, as long as they were fairly alone. “It’s the same thing with the slouching. Trying to blend in. You know the - laying low.”

Laying low was probably hiding the entire “I’m an alien, but not green or Martian” thing. “I got to discuss foundling law with the psychiatrist. I mentioned I was worried it’d be a problem with the adoption, so she suggested we read over the Kansas statutes,” Billy said, and then trailed off feeling like he was blathering too much. “I mean - it doesn’t - that stuff is just what it is. Like mine.” Since wizards shoving the ability to turn into a superpowered adult and being an alien were barely similar.

“True. I guess normal isn’t entirely something we know about. I would like you to meet my parents sometime. They’re good people.” Clark led them back toward where he parked his car. “It was a fear, when I was younger, that I’d just - people wouldn’t fight back because they’d be complacent. I would do the thinking and the fighting if I didn’t blend in.”

“You do the teaching though. I think that’s a lot better. And for blending in - well, if I can’t -” Billy shrugged. “I think you’d blend in without hunching all the time. It’s . . . okay to be you, isn’t it? Just like it’s fine for . . . for Billy Batson to exist.” He watched his expression glower in a shop window. “Was this Miss Lane’s idea? Trying to do superhero junk without it having -”

Clark rescued him from floundering with how to say words. “With it being something a kid your age could actually be doing? No, but we discussed a couple of ideas. How’d you rate it?” Clark asked, like rating the enjoyability of being a hero was normal.

“Judo lady was pretty interesting,” Billy said, wishing he could shove his hands in his pockets and slouch. “I guess . . . an eight?”

“Really? I thought I’d get a six after that tent took off again.” Clark flashed a grin at him. “So - tell me about the homework.” He climbed into his car, and rolled down the windows to vent out the heat from it sitting.

“Dreaded Zucchini was pretty good. Bonus points for feeding me.” He can’t really put this off forever. “Homeschooling books are kind of weird.” He didn’t like how some of them seemed to be pro-LexCorp. Should he mention that? “The physics one seems kind of pro-LexCorp. I don’t know if they funded it or what. There was a math problem involving assuming a horse was a frictionless cube going up a frictionless slope. I thought that thing was just jokes about physics.”

“Do you know why they’re ignoring the friction involved?”

“Ugh,” Billy said. He flopped in his seat to hear the springs squeak and grabbed the seat buckle. “Coefficient of friction is highly variable, called mu or something like that. I could puzzle through the problems, but the word problems without the roadmap of how to solve them was bad.”

Clark looked over at him, and then started the car up. “Considering that’s probably high school level, and you’ve never done physics problems. Doesn’t sound that surprising to me.”

“You’re not going to ask to see the weird LexCorp fanboy textbooks?”

“Publisher name might be nice, but -” Clark shrugged. “It could easily be a writer, or a sponsor, or the company’s an offshoot. We can do some research, if you think it’s worrying.”

“If I think . . . .” Billy trailed off and looked out the window. “I don’t know. It felt more like those movies where the can labels are always turned out. But it was noticeable. At least, I think it was.” He was fine with the idea of being a superhero that didn’t punch jaws for a while, but he never imagined that it’d involve planning about things that could turn into stuff that was above his . . . age group. The wizard never cared that he was young.

“Corporate sponsorship of textbooks should be well disclosed as well. I know there was some complaints about discussions about poverty being pretty bad in certain textbooks. Imagine if you could prove a political party funded an entire branch of schooling. The news would be all over it.” He looked thoughtful. “Come to think of it, that could be an article. Look into diversity and corporate connections in the fields of homeschooling and so on. Is low income school texts providing a good basis for students?”

They drove for a while. The main noise was Clark’s phone vibrating off and on with messages. “You’re kind of not talking about shoving me back in school,” Billy said.

“From what that one relative said, you had maybe third grade before you ended up living on the streets.” She was one of the family members that recommended the state take custody. They pulled into Clark’s parking space at the apartment, and they both waved at one of the neighbors who were heading out to walk their dogs. Like this was the normal end to a weekend run to the farmer’s market. “I was told you don’t get along with her.”

“Too far away, and yeah.” Billy grabbed his books and helped with some of the veggies. Stole a fry on pure impulse. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the state probably wants me cut out the truancy.”

“Yeah. You’re homeschooling right now though. Your psychiatrist called me up and had a long talk. Said I should push you to stay at my place until the adoption work goes through. I’ve got the room, and I think it’d be safer.” Clark managed to push the button on the elevator despite juggling his phone, a briefcase, and the bag of apples. “I said I’d talk about it. Once they know what grade you’re in, you can homeschool, or start at the next semester. There’s a couple of options for smaller private schools as well. Military kids, superhero kids, refugees.”

Billy shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. “Troubled kids, I’m guessing too.” He hadn’t heard a word from Clark about him being a brat of a ten year old.

“I was more thinking places that’d understand if you’d need flexible test scheduling.” Clark smiled at him over the bag of dented apples. “But there is a care home for abused kids that’s running schooling up to college level. If you want to check it out.”

Billy slouched and felt turtle like and hidden in his hoodie. “Not really abused. I’m taking care of myself. I meant some - you know - military whatever thing. Strict stuff if you act out and uniforms.”

“Don’t really think you’d do good with that kind of thing,” Clark said and stepped out as the elevator dinged. It was all done with stained glass and oak. Probably more Arts and Crafts than the Art Deco stuff in the lobby. Would that put it later or earlier than the pink tiled bathroom? “A place that won’t think it’s odd you’ve got an unmarried step-dad would be good too, I think.”

Billy followed him down the hall, and automatically said, “Dad. I don’t have another one.”

Clark looked down at him, and then gently nudged his shoulder blade to correct his posture. “Probably shouldn’t move so fast. Better make sure I’m passable.”

“One of the kids was asking why I was hanging out with a vacuum salesman.” Billy blinked back at him, and then reached over to poke his shoulder blade. “Maybe if you stop slouching.”


	4. Chapter 4

  
_His heart was full of laughter,_  
 _His soul was full of bliss_  
Joyce Kilmer “Gates and Doors” 1917

The farmer’s market was almost entirely shut down for the year. There was a Christmas market later, and a few places had little indoors vegetable stands from people with greenhouses, but the first frost had come and gone.

Perry White wanted her to try to show up early to see if she could get anything about the superheroes who’d been helping set up little community markets all fall. It wasn’t possible, unfortunately. There were some major arrests in Gotham, and she and a fidgety Clark (who had to step out to do some calls) were stuck in debriefing for way too long.

She messaged Billy while they were waiting between talks. “Trapped in a meeting. Can you wait a while for me?”

It didn’t take that long to get a reply. “I can go in to warm up. Spiced cider is good. No worry.” The cell phone idea was Clark’s. Billy called her the other night after dinner to see if she wanted to check out the last day of the Farmer’s Market. It was something he and Clark had been visiting on the weekends.

Clark, privately, had worried with her. From the sounds of things, Billy’s parents had checked out pretty early and his other family members either couldn’t or wouldn’t pick up the slack. The foster family record was a mess of good intentions and naive hope. The social worker told them that Billy wasn’t a bad kid. Most of his disciplinary record was stuff like missing classes, being mouthy, starting fights, and the occasional mess of being caught with a beer and friends.

Which if she was a mostly homeless kid on the streets, she probably would’ve had a beer or two, and had some anger issues to work out. Clark would’ve won more fights than Billy had, but the entire “is secretly Superman” was a pretty unfair advantage. He probably would’ve tried to stick in school and had better luck with the foster families.

Clark’s complete and utter boy scout wonder attitude was serving him well when it came to adoption. The general consensus was that Clark needed to pass some pre-adoption screening, and then the paperwork would go through to handle some state tax credits. That’d be followed by a post-adoption monitoring period. It made for some productive articles, at least. There was a statute requiring children aged ten and up to consent to their potential adoptive families. Between Billy’s consent and the psychiatrist’s glowing referrals, it was looking like Clark might legally be his father before next year.

Billy messaged her, “Need to cancel? Breakfast here not end of world if missed.”

She reassured Billy, and Clark gave her his scarf and hat as she finally escaped to meet up with him. The little Unitarian church parking lot had a nest of tents set up, and some portable heaters turning things from cold to pretty pleasant. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting.

Billy had a new coat, and a pair of mittens that had to be from Clark’s family. “Miss Lane.” He hesitated and set down his cup to shake her hand. “There’s coffee and hot chocolate and stuff. Do you want to get something - have you eaten breakfast?”

“Of a sort?” She smiled at him. “Lois works, really. Let’s get some breakfast, and then you can show me around?”

“Okay?” He pitched that up like a question watching her face, and then flashed a grin. “Caffeine, I think. How was the press conference?”

“Dry. Big set of arrests in Gotham, we knew everything they could tell us, but they had to tell us officially so we knew, and then a bunch of questions about what they couldn’t.” Lois fell in line with him. She didn’t really check out farmer’s markets that much. Weekends were better for not getting up at four thirty to work on the early editions. She had no use for soap, dried lavender, and imported trinkets. The most useful thing would probably be vegetables and almanacs full of pithy sayings. Which no, she wasn’t in love enough with Clark to want to feel like she was trapped in a flyover state.

Instead, it was a mix. There were some craft places. A guy was selling his own roasted coffee and pyrographic decorated wood and leather things. The smell of the maple plaque he was burning with complex designs threaded through the stalls. Billy bought hot chocolate for himself and she got a cup of coffee. “There’s a bakery, and the breaded zucchini,” he said, muffled by burying his nose in the paper cup.

“Breaded -” No, she heard that wrong, judging by the cheerful “Dreaded Zucchini” sign. It was decorated with squash and had some foil pinwheels stapled to the sides of the tent. The menu said it had fries, a vegetarian gumbo, and one with some local sausage. “Huh. Gumbo sounds pretty good. You’ve eaten there before?”

“Yeah,” Billy said cheerfully, waving at some eighty year old lady selling judo outfits. “The spicy fries are good.”

“Zucchini it is.” She paused and then fished out her little camera for him. “Want to try to ask for some photos? Might be able to make an article for the paper on all of this.”

Billy trailed along with her, got the occasional, “So nice for your mother to show up this weekend,” and blushed adorably when people asked if the photos were for a school project. She talked mostly about harmless stuff.

“What happened in Gotham?” he asked finally, looking kind of cold and tired when they’d done a full circuit and circled back around for another shot of the full market. “Did . . . .” And she caught that scowl in the corner of her eye as his voice cracked. “Did anyone die?”

“No, the arrest went pretty smoothly. One of those police sting operations, Batman probably helped out, shining moment of crushing corruption. It went like a charm.” Lois wondered why the concept of people dying in Gotham had the kid looking like it’d be people he knew.

“That’s good. I mean, crime going down is good, but also just no one . . . no one got hurt.” Billy’s stomach rumbled, so she grabbed the opportunity.

“Why don’t we grab a lunch and get a move on? Your phone message said you could get dropped off in the library, and the skies look like it’s going to turn nasty soon. Better get going, right? Reporters shouldn’t dally.”

They ended up heading back to her car to warm up on the way to the library with another batch of gumbo. “I thought the mustard greens in the gumbo z’herbes would be spicier,” Billy said finally. “I wonder if we could cook this . . . .”

“Probably? Gumbo’s not that hard. It’s one of those - you know - everyone has the right recipe for it.” Lois looked over at him. “You’re having dinner with Clark? I could message him and see if he’s okay with us doing some shopping for it.”

“I’ve got to pick up some books at the library for an essay,” Billy said and looked out the window as the snow started. “Do you - can you hang around that long? I can take the subway.”

“I can hang out in the library for a bit,” Lois said. “Is this - you’re taking classes at that care home, right?”

“Yeah. Might get shifted to public school, but my trig’s pretty awful, and it’s kinda remedial.” He frowned. “Never got the classes, so -”

Definitely time to interrupt this. “Not blaming you, kiddo,” Lois said. “Let’s eat this up and get on in before the snow gets worse.” She pulled out her phone. “So - suggest stew or gumbo to Clark or no?”

Billy looked over at her, and then held out his phone that already had the question ready to send.

She grinned. “Reporters shouldn’t dally. I bet he’s forgetting about lunch too. I at least can work on some of my to do list at the library.”

Billy nodded back at her and flashed another grin. “Thanks, Miss . . . thanks, Lois.”


	5. Chapter 5

  
_Unlatch the door at midnight_  
_And let your lantern's glow_  
_Shine out to guide the traveler's feet_  
_To you across the snow._  
Joyce Kilmer “Gates and Doors” 1917

The drug stores were playing Christmas music by the time that the paperwork went through. Lois Lane got to even go down to one of the group therapy sessions. Apparently Wayne Enterprises was funding the therapy programs for at risk kids and homeless people, which was something neither of them had heard about. The paper kind of had adoption themed articles for a while now. Clark ended up digging out some interesting information about foundling adoption rules and foster programs for the city.

The photos that Billy took got Perry White lamenting that he was too young to try an internship with Jimmy. Well, that and that she didn’t catch a photo of any superheroes.

Lois Lane got the text message when they were climbing out of the car, and fished it out to check. She had to switch her new phone’s alert sound when she and Clark discovered they were using the same one. When he did the same, they ended up having an excuse for lunch and peering over the phone instruction manuals together to make sure they didn’t end up with the same ring tones. It wasn’t like they’d mix up their phones, but more the jokes in the office when they’d both reach for their phones at the same time.

“We can pick up Billy from school,” Clark said fishing out his own phone to check for messages. “And then I was thinking of that bakery. We could make dinner at home, perhaps. Or have leftover apple pie while we’re considering if we want to order out.”

Billy had shot up in height, unsurprisingly, with regular varied meals. Side effect was Clark occasionally texting her that he wished they could just do a pizza or a pile of cheap chicken wings instead of trying for at least something leafy and packed with vitamins.

“It’s my mother. She’s congratulating you on the adoption paperwork.” Lois paused, with her hand hovering over her phone. “Should I offer to get a photo of all of us?”

Clark adjusted his tie and looked at her over her glasses. “How bad?”

“Dorky.” She leaned to kiss his cheek.

“I can wait a while longer,” Billy said, probably because he just walked up on them smooching. He sounded amused. “You said there was good news?”

“Good news,” Clark said. “I was thinking of visiting the bakery near the crepe stand you like. You’re officially adopted.”

“Should I get a photo for mom?” Lois asked. “She’s very excited.”

Billy slouched and grinned sheepishly. “Clark’s not in plaid.”

“And your hair’s not too bad.” Clark offered a hand to take Billy’s books. “What do you say?”

“The crepe stand has the Japanese maple near it.” Billy said, climbing into the back of the car and kind of looked like he wasn’t sure what to say. “It might look nicer than a brick wall.”

“Good plan. The boss, by the way, said my photographer was amazing,” Lois said, “How was school?”

Okay, the bit of a blush? Adorable. The kid always acted like praise was a surprise. “Short. Got pulled out of class.” He paused looking like he realized that sounded bad. “I mean, for American politics. I saw you in the press conference. I think I did? You were wearing a purple blouse.” Billy buckled himself in and shifted to lean forward and talk. He always sounded kind of off balance when it was the three of them. At first, Lois thought it was something with her, until she saw Clark and him doing the same kind of cautious dancing around the question if he needed a winter coat.

Lois chuckled. “Well, there was a coffee run, and the attack of the powdered sugar.” She paused. “We talked about dinner. What’d you like?”

“Uh - there’s zucchini. Clark said we could try fries made from them. And apple pie.” Billy hesitated and looked down to pick at a hole in his jeans. 

“I was debating on take out, but fries sounds good. We could thaw out the turkey burgers. Finish off the bread. Sounds good?” Clark glanced up at the rear view mirror since they were at a light.

Billy looked up and grinned. “Take out would be good too. But - I want to talk about this thing. This spring, there’ll be a program with the care home school. Probably, that’d take a while. So . . . uh - keep the plans simple. Maybe.”

Clark grinned back at him. “Tell me about the spring thing?”

They drove down to the crepe stand and bakery with Billy describing a language immersion thing they were offering during spring break in Farsi. It did sound pretty good, and she was pretty sure they hadn’t done an article on the program in a while.

It looked like Clark was thinking the same thing.

He separated to buy a tea ring for breakfast and possibly secret cake, and she stood in line with Billy to buy crepes. He waited until they were alone, under the red leaves of the maple, until he suddenly said, “I know who he is, you know.”

Well, that was awkward, considering she was trying to not get whipped cream or chocolate sauce on her nose. “Mrph? Kent, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Billy said. He gestured with his plastic spork. “We’re doing Christmas things. With the care home and a couple of hospitals. In uniform. I know who he is. You’re okay with that, right?”

Admittedly, she was instantly trying to remember if Billy had done anything suspicious, showed a fondness for kryptonite, or any tiny superheroes. “It - of course? I mean, he told you. And in less time than it took for him to tell me.”

“We knew each other for a while. I mean - non-civilian knew each other. And I told him, so he . . . decided to tell me. I was saying that Billy should vanish.” Billy looked up at the tree above them. “Not suicide vanish. More that . . . a kid I knew got hurt. Got killed. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. And it . . . it was getting hard.”

“Being a superhero?” Lois asked. She wished she knew if giving him a hug was a bad idea.

“Being a kid. My own fault for not getting along with foster homes.” Billy leaned a little, so she half hugged him. He didn’t elbow her. “He said I didn’t have to tell you. That it’d be if I trusted you.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell people. I don’t even know which superhero you are. I don’t think there’s anyone your size in the Teen Titans.” Lois rubbed his upper arm a little.

“I look bigger?” Billy looked sheepish. “I’m sorry . . . .”

“So you turn into some big guy? Bet if you eat your veggies, you’ll end up getting just as big when you get older.”

Billy laughed. “Eat your crepe while it’s hot.” He twiddled with his spork a bit. “It’s . . . uh. Shazam. Captain Marvel. That’s who I am. I know it’s weird.”

“Pretty cool,” Lois said, not knowing what else to say. “I don’t suppose you can fly too, can you?”

Billy looked confused. “I actually can?”

“Clark first told me after taking me on a flight. And then he revealed it on top of a building. This is comparatively normal.”

Billy snorted. “Well, he likes you.”

“Well, there may’ve been a kiss involved -”

That did get her an elbow. “Don’t want to hear about it,” Billy said, with a grin. “Besides, he’s dropping the junk off in the car. So dad’ll be over here for that photo soon.”

She saw the sun breaking through the clouds. Clark straightened up and looked around. He probably could see her blue shirt, and Billy’s colorful hat, judging by the smile that broke across his face.

Billy waved, and she found herself grinning.


End file.
